


Control (Or Lack Thereof)

by AnotherAnon0



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bathroom Sex, Dirty Talk, Dirty disgusting sex, Double Anal Penetration, Face Slapping, Gangbang, M/M, Nicholai is a hoe again, One Shot, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Prostitution, Rough Oral Sex, Shameless Smut, Slut Shaming, Submission, There are no tags for this shit so just read it if you want, Urination, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:41:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24665536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnotherAnon0/pseuds/AnotherAnon0
Summary: In a dingy truck stop bar, Nicholai finds a place he can lose control.
Relationships: Nicholai Ginovaef | Nikolai Zinoviev/All of UBCS basically, Nicholai Ginovaef | Nikolai Zinoviev/Random strangers
Comments: 12
Kudos: 22





	Control (Or Lack Thereof)

The U.B.C.S central barracks was located on the outskirts of a dingy border town in the Southern United States.

Deserted, abusively hot, rolling nothingness as far as one's eye could see. The townsfolk were unconcerned with whatever Umbrella was doing -- their barely-existent, isolated community having been used as a nuclear weapons testing ground in the past by the U.S Government. A perfect setting for B.O.W evaluations and seedy militia training.

The sun didn't set until late at night. Twilight brought with it a pinch of coolness that made being outside bearable, though there wasn't much outside of the barracks to see or indulge in. 

A truck stop with an adjacent bar, a few short miles away from the barracks, was the crown jewel of the town. 

Liquor flowed freely in the dark cave that was that bar. Neon lights and scratchy, static-ridden radio sliced through the depressing, aggressive dimness. It reverberated from the sweaty shoulders of the rough men drinking away their isolated loneliness. Truckers on their million-and-oneth day driving through hellish nowhere. Mercenaries exhausted after training, desperate to put an alcoholic stopper on aching muscles and the memories from prison or war.

And then there was _him_.

Nicholai didn't go to the bar to drink anymore -- the vodka was some shitty American brand that left a film on his tongue anyway. 

No. He realised long ago the power of the bar. The ethereal, hollow, almost mystical pull the bar had was one of a vacuous black hole in which he could lose himself for a few, short hours; submitting to men he could easily overpower in any other circumstance, some of which he knew he'd likely pull a trigger on one day.

He didn't quite remember how it had all started, not that he gave much of a thought to it anyway. He knew it wasn't with the first fuck -- that one was unoriginal, unexciting, and came with a promise to himself he'd never do it again. He figured it must have been with the second -- one that came just as he was trying to recover from the first, disgust just beginning to settle in the back of his mind as he realised how dirty the bathroom floor he was lying on was. It had been an early hour, and the bar was almost empty. He hadn't expected the door to swing open when it did, a pair of drunk, lecherous eyes settling upon him much in the same way the first pair had. 

The fat, greasy trucker had shoved some bills in his moan-agape mouth as he finished emptying his spoiled seed inside of him. The paper tasted disgusting, bitter and chalky, but made him groan loudly as he savoured the thought of being seen as a lowly whore.

The bathroom of the bar became a necromantic place. The moment he passed the threshold, spectral, otherworldly forces stripped him of his desperate, uptight desire to control himself and everything around him. His needs and wants were abandoned as quickly as his clothes, rank and status leaking away like the cum streaming onto the floor from every fuckable hole on his body. 

It was a special treat when U.B.C.S men took him.

Like with everything else, it was a haze how it had escalated in the way it did. Likely with that _little shit_ Murphy Seeker. The boy had drunkenly stumbled into that magical bathroom while he was on his knees, roughly having his throat turned out by a strange bar patron. At first, he hadn't noticed him, eyes rolling behind fluttering lids, appreciating the pain echoing from the back of his head as it occasionally struck against the vandalised concrete wall behind it. 

_"Well, well..._ " His eyes had opened to the mutter venomously mocking from above him, _"Who would have guessed? Not just a lunatic, but a fag too!"_

Nicholai had initially considered harshly correcting the younger man. The moment the cock was done in his mouth, he thought, he'd make quick work of the insubordination. But as he watched Murphy's expression transmute from a jeering taunt to rosey, hazy lust from the corner of his eye, he decided he'd let the bathroom decide his fate from that moment on. 

It seemed to know what he needed more than he did.

He turned his attention to Murphy as he slurped up the ejaculate on his lips, noisily swallowing the load after the stranger's softening member was withdrawn. 

It was a silent beckon. A sloppy invitation. One Murphy wasted no time in accepting. 

The abusively rough conquest of his already-exhausted throat was a fetishistic tipping point he knew there was no return from. Murphy had even less consideration for him than the anonymous truckers did -- months of heavy hatred bellowing through him in every thrust, not a moment offered to accommodate the rock-hard cock and catch breath. 

Murphy had taken a fistful of his short, silver locks afterwards and shoved his oxygen-deprived flushed face in the urinal. He'd laughed sardonically as Nicholai's tongue had rolled from his cum-coated lips, taking in whatever he could of the golden droplets streaming onto his head and dripping down his face and the porcelain bowl around him.

The first, but not the last time he'd have his face in that urinal. He started to dislike it only when he realised it was hard to wash away the smell of the damned deodoriser cake.

Other mercenaries were just as rough with him. Their petty aggressions and grievances for mistreatment by him came out in full force when they had the chance to use him. It was a chance they began lining up for, jeering at and taunting him as they took turns fucking him senseless. 

_"Who knew Sarge was such a filthy slut?"_

_"He loves this!"_

_"Could two of you's stand on his wrists? He's squirming lots."_

They'd edge each other along to use him harder and harder, cheering and laughing victoriously whenever he expressed an impossible-to-contain, whimpering, groaning, yelping pleasure at any novel manipulation of his body. Two younger mercenaries, Tyrell and Carlos, had decided to penetrate him at the same time, causing him to lurch and gasp as he was forced to stretch and accommodate the tearing insertion. His shock-agape mouth was a waiting opportunity for another, Mac Dowell, who had taken a childish entertainment in ensuring he caught as little breath as possible as cum bubbled out from the corners of his lips.

Between lost air and near endless penetrations, he'd sometimes pass out. While he fought it as much as he could, he enjoyed it when it happened. It was the ultimate loss of control. A smile would always paint his way across his tired lips when he woke, whether the act was still in progress or everyone had dispersed already. He'd savour the anxious thoughts that harassed his mind -- the inability to ever know what had happened in the minutes to hours he was gone. Time vanished like the night itself, memories stolen but for a map of bruises, bites, and red marks along his body which chided him to recollect that which was impossible to. 

When sunrise came, order was always restored. 

Shakily dressing himself, he'd slip out from the back exit of the bar into whatever degree of twilight was birthing its way across the horizon. He'd take in a deep, penetrating lungful of the clean air -- air not tainted with the stink of cum, piss, or cheap bathroom deodoriser. He'd have a cigarette outside the step of the bar, kicking along the rocks on the dusty concrete as he ruminated over whatever parts of the evening he could remember. A small ritual to complete.

And then he left. Back to the barracks, where he'd stalk the halls confidently as though nothing had ever happened. The mercenaries knew they were expected to ignore any tiny traces of the evening they had perhaps been involved in. The swollen cheek from a backhanded slap. The little bruises along the Sergeant's neck he sometimes declined to cover. Like him, they knew the bar was a magical place where the law of reality did not stand.

A shower washed off the filth that had accumulated in his pores throughout the night. The hot water beating over his body polished him with his necessary facade of control -- the sputtering stream of the barracks shower pouring his mask of stoic dominance back on.

All was as it should have been.

Until dusk.

**Author's Note:**

> Ummmmm.....
> 
> okay.


End file.
